


Trenches

by morgisback



Series: Trenches - A Story of War [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Racist Language, The Holocaust, Violence, World War II, extreme violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 20:51:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8117134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgisback/pseuds/morgisback
Summary: Soldiers fight together.  Soldier die together.  This is how war has carried on since men discovered weapons made of rock and bone.  Jack Morrison and Gabriel Reyes are just two soldiers.  You probably won't remember their names.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be long, just so everyone knows. I'm going to try and do history justice. I hope everyone enjoys it!

The word came early that morning before the reveille had even been played.

The barracks of the camp were quiet and still in the middle of the night, deathly unaware of the soldiers walking through it. Men were being woken from their sleep and orders to move out were being whispered, shaking men to rise and go to work. The best job most of them would ever get.

Gabriel Reyes could hear the men coming down the hall; he could feel them as he laid in bed and counted the times his brothers breathed. Bad habits, he had been told when he first got to the reserve, Something you learn after a while. He didn’t even blink when the superior officer of his unit shined the flashlight in his eyes. The man was tall and dawned in military greens. Brown eyes met the cold and dead shades that had become such a steadfast part of the young man’s life. Both sat silent for a long moment and he could feel fear radiating off the man. And Gabriel wasn’t at all shock that the fear spread to him.

“Reyes,” The officer said finally. “Get up.”

Gabriel could feel his shirt peel away from his dark skin as he lifted his back off the bed. The officer didn’t wait long enough to see if he got up before rushing out and waking the others. Placing his feet on the ground, Reyes snatched up his boots and set about placing them on his feet. He didn’t question what was going on or why they were leaving. His brain was swimming with lack of sleep, a sensation he was growing steadily used to. Instead, he focused on fixing his laces just so.

“Where are we going?” A faint and familiar voice asked a few bunks back.

No one answered him. Most of the other men were busily getting ready, silent as they grabbed their gear and buttoned up their jackets. The kid turned and looked at Reyes’ back and the older man could feel the confusion in his stare. “Where are we going? What’s going on?”

Reyes stood up and tugged his coat out from the duffel bag under his bed. “Shut up and get dressed, Jewels.” The kid knew better than to argue with Gabriel Reyes.

Gabe waited until the Jewels was ready, standing silently by the end of his bunk and watching the other soldiers walk out in a line. His dark eyes studied every single one of them as they walked by with bowed heads and darkened eyes. They were all wondering if they would ever see each other again. He ignored the sound of Jewels fighting with his duffle bag. This kid wasn’t going to make it back, he decided. Gabe’s eyebrows furrowed as he watched him rush forward and clear his throat. Only been in boot for a few months, still pretty green – it made Gabe sick to his stomach as he imagined how quickly the poor kid was going to die.

But maybe Jewels would be different. Maybe he’d come out on top and show the world that young, rich white kids could actually kick some ass a few times before their heads got blown clean off. He doubted it, but anything was possible these days. The kid watched him with bright blue eyes that had yet to see any atrocity that man could provide. The life would soon be ripped from them and that thought upset Gabe.

He lifted up a hand and rested it on the boy’s head. He gave it a quick ruffle, messing up the boy’s dark brown hair and urging him forward into the line of men. “We’re going to work, Jewels.”

 

* * *

 

 

Jack Morrison was not a praying man, let alone a believer like his parents wanted him to be. Church on Sundays, however, got him a few hours to relax before the duties of the old farm called to him again. He was more than happy to attend and sit beside his family. He would feign listening to the old preacher whoop and holler about whatever it was that was damning them all to hell while his mind wandered to other things that interested a young boy of 20. Jack figured he got away with it for that long, no sense in stopping now.

The church was becoming increasingly packed these past few months. Even in the dead of winter, people were fanning themselves with their hats or gloves thanks to the ever growing crowd. Everyone was hoping to find some sort of answer with the news coming out of Europe and New York. The poor farmers and farm hands of St. Bernice were scared and confused and they knew only one place to find answers – and that was in God and his speaker, Pastor Richards.

Jack Morrison wasn’t paying any attention to the older man at the front of the church however. He paid no mind to the people hanging off of every word Pastor Richard shouted. He wasn’t paying attention to his younger sister untying and retying his shoe laces. He wasn’t paying attention to his mother’s nods and his father’s agreeing grunts. He wasn’t paying any mind to the thought of war or death that the preacher was so adamant on speaking of today.

The only thing on Jack Morrison’s mind was Miss Margaret Tipton’s legs.

The young woman had them crossed at such a beautiful angle, where the yellow dress slipped a little too far up the thigh. Her white laced gloves rested against her exposed body just a little above the knee. The skin underneath was the most dazzling shade of ivory that Jack had ever seen. He could feel the water pooling in his mouth at the sight and he could tell by the smile on her face she knew what she was doing to him. For some reason, that thought seemed to fuel Jack more than the actual sight of her legs itself.

“ _Jack_.” His mother hissed at him under her breath, gently slapping his arm to gain his attention.

He pulled his eyes away reluctantly and looked at his mother. Her bright blue eyes were glaring at him but it wasn’t entirely without affection. He knew what she was thinking: _Having such impure thoughts in the house of God? How could her son ever imagine such sin?_

From the other side of the pew, he heard a soft giggle that was quickly covered up by a clearing of the throat. Jack glanced back at Miss Margaret, who had her hand up against her chest to feign a cough. Her mother was whispering to her, no doubt to check and see if she was okay. Miss Margaret gave a quick nod, before clearing her throat one more time and settling back into the pew.

She would always be better at this game than Jack could ever be.

 

* * *

 

 

“Beautiful sermon as always, Pastor Richards.”

Mrs. Morrison couldn’t help but praise the pastor as they stood outside the church, as she did every Sunday. Speaking to the man of the cloth was a favorite hobby of Jack’s mothers and she always had to praise his sermons despite how they always sounded the same. Today, however, Jack couldn’t help but agree. It _was_ a beautiful sermon.

Pastor Richard nodded and gave a wide smile that didn’t seem to fit onto his small face. “Thank you, Mrs. Morrison. I just hope people are comforted by the words of Jesus during these troubled times.”

Jack glanced around the church lot, trying to find the beautiful red curls of Miss Margaret somewhere in the sea of people. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks to brace them from the cold, the old gloves not doing much in the way of protecting his fingers from the cool December air. He couldn’t see her anywhere, the thought bothering him. His younger sister, Emma, gripped his coat pocket and also acted as a look out for him. Her blonde curls spun this way and that, trying her best to catch sight of the older girl. She could see the yellow of her dress faster than he ever could.

“How are the pigs doing this year, Edgar?” Pastor Richard asked after a moment, turning to look at Jack’s father. “I’ve been meaning to ask you but with everything going on…”

Edgar shrugged, fixing the hat on his head.  “They’re doing fine, I imagine. Not many new piglets but enough to get us into next spring and start good, I think.”

“That’s good to hear. I’ll have to stop by and pick one out from you.”

“You know you always get first dibs on pigs, Pastor. Don’t you worry none.”

“There she is, Jack.” Emma whispered to him, pointing past a few people.

Jack glanced down at his sister, his eyes following her outstretched hand. His heart stopped in his chest when his eyes fell on Miss Margaret standing with her father and mother. Her dark grey coat made the yellow dress underneath pop even more against the white, snowy background. She didn’t seem to be paying much attention to whatever conversation her parents were having with the store keep, Mr. Ruthford. Judging by the distant look in her eyes, she was going through the practiced motions of civility. He gave her another once over before patting his younger sister’s bright golden curls. “Good girl,” He muttered, giving her a smile. It earned him a bright, toothy grin that only Emma could muster.

“Excuse me, Father,” Jack said quickly with a nod of his head. He ducked away before his mother could ask him where he was going, but he could feel the glare on his back from his father who had taught him better.

The young man weaved through the crowd of people, giving quiet nods and quick “good mornings”, as any young gentlemen would. He didn’t bother to wait until the conversation was over before stepping up beside Mr. Tipton. The older man turned and looked at him before offering a hand that still had all the fingers attached to it. Jack gave it a good, firm handshake. “Mr. Tipton, good morning.”

“Jack!” Mrs. Tipton exclaimed, her face splitting into a smile. Her hair was set in beautiful curls and it was easy to see where Miss Margaret got her good features from. “Good morning! How are you?”

“I’m doing fine.” He grinned, “And you?”

“Fine, fine!” She replied, glancing back at her husband. “Poor Mr. Tipton is feeling a bit under the weather today, trying to keep his voice.”

Jack did his best to look sympathetic, "Sorry to hear that, sir."

“Good morning, Jack,” Miss Margaret smiled, looking at him from under long lashes. Her voice was hardly above a whisper and her body swayed ever so slightly, causing her dress to dance around her legs in the most beautiful display he had ever seen.

His heart skipped another beat. How could anything as pretty as the woman in front of him even exist? He wasn’t a man of faith, but sometimes, the young lady questioned that thought. His smile softened and he nodded, tipping his hat ever so slightly. “Morning, Miss Margaret.”

“We were just talking about you.” The sound of Mrs. Tipton’s voice almost made Jack jump out of his skin. “Victor and I here were thinking about asking your father for a pig for Christmas or perhaps one of your turkeys. Does your family still raise them?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jack gave her a handsome smile, “We do. I’ll have to let father know to give you first pick.”

“Always such a gentleman, isn’t he, Margaret.” Her mother turned to give her a wide, ever knowing smile.

The young woman nodded in agreement, their eyes never breaking contact. It was another test of wills both were more than happy to take part in. “Yes, Momma.” She answered finally. It made Jack’s skin shiver more than the cold.

“Tilly and I will have to see what we can do about getting one for Christmas then,” Mr. Ruthford said, causing Jack to turn and look at him. “It’s been a while since we had a good, proper feast for Christmas.”

“I’ll let him know you’ll be stopping by then.” Jack glanced back at his father, who was trying to corral the youngest Morrison children into the truck. Emma was already sitting in the bed, the blanket tossed over her long legs. A feeling of dread passed over him as he realized he wasn’t going to get a chance to speak to Miss Margaret in private.

“You going to the diner later?”

Jack turned and looked at Miss Margaret, watching her turn away from the scene of his family. She must have had the same thought he did. He nodded, “I might be.”

“A few of us our heading down after supper to listen to the radio,” She said, giving a shrug, “You should go.”

There was no one else going and Jack knew it. They always tried to meet alone as much as possible, gave them a chance to talk about whatever their hearts desired. He gave her a smile and nodded, “I’ll see what I can do. Plenty of work to be done today, but I’m sure I can find the time. Six o’clock sound alright?”

Her smile broke into a grin. She gave a quick nod, “Six o’clock sounds just fine.”

 

* * *

 

 

The Morrison Family Farm had been passed down to the eldest son for as long as Jack’s father could remember. From the day Jack was old enough to understand such talk, the weight of the old dairy and wool farm had been placed on his shoulders. He was to take over when his father got too old to work the land that stretched for as far as the eye could see. And it would be that when he finally had a son, he would give the boy the same speech. He would sit down with the young child on the porch, set him in his lap and rock him gently back and forth while they listened to the crickets and crows in the distance. Jack would spread his arm out and tell him that this land would be his.

And he would ignore the despair that caused his child, because that’s how it was supposed to be. Much like Edgar ignored most of Jack’s complaints and pleas that the farm wasn’t going to last much longer. It was a growing wedge between the two men, one that seemed to be causing more arguments the longer they spent time with each other. Jack would bring up trying to find work in the city and before long both men were pushed into the barn by Mrs. Morrison. Their yelling and screaming was probably heard by anyone who happened to drive by, but Jack’s mother refused to believe such talk.

Today, however, Jack stayed quiet. Even as the children carried out the dead piglets from the barn, Jack said nothing. Edgar wasn’t quite sure what happened, but they lost at least 4 or 5 young pigs. Maybe they were just sick to begin with; maybe they got sick after a while. The old farmer just stood in the pen with the squealing mother, scratching his head and grumbling under his breath. Jack did his best to try to comfort the grieving pig, whispering soft words to her and patting her backside. “It’ll be alright, Lassie,” He said, trying to ignore the sniffling of young Emma and Thomas. “They’re not hurting anymore. They’re alright.”

“Shit,” His father finally swore when the kids were done taking out the lifeless bodies. “On Sunday too.”

Jack grunted in agreement, standing up from the mud and leaving the mother to her grief. His father eyed him, quietly trying to calm down. The more their livestock passed, the more dread fell on his father’s shoulders. This winter was already going to be harsh and if the piglets couldn’t survive this early into it, they were going to see some troubled times. “We’ll have to bring the rest inside,” Edgar muttered just loud enough so his son could hear him, fixing his hat on top of his head.

“Emma will like that,” Jack mumbled, trying not to look at his father. He didn’t want him to see the growing aggravation on his face. “She likes the piglets.”

He knew the finances were weighing on his father; he could tell by the slump of his shoulders when the crops during the fall went bad. He could tell when he heard him pacing around the living room in the middle of the night. He could tell by the look on his face whenever Jack mentioned moving to the city and trying to find better work. Jack was sure it was like a punch to the old man’s pride that his son didn’t believe there was a profit to the man’s life. But Jack wasn’t sure how long he could hide the frustration building inside of his gut. His father was normally a restrained man and it was a virtue Jack didn’t receive.

“We still gonna offer a pig to the Pastor?” Jack asked his father as he passed through the pen’s gate.

Edgar didn’t answer. Instead, the older man stared out the open barn door at the children. Thomas had fetched a shovel from the shed and both he and Emma were busy clearing the ground of snow and dirt. Jack’s eyes fell on the scene, watching the children play part of the priest and undertaker. His heart hurt for them, but both men knew that they were old enough to understand death – therefore, they were old enough for the job.

“We don’t go back on our word, boy.” Edgar didn’t tear his eyes away from them. Their small bodies were hunched over as they worked and even from where they stood, both could see the pink on their small cheeks from the wind and tears.

“We can’t help it if we don’t have the pigs to give him,” Jack replied, doing his best to hide the snort in his voice.

“We still got a few pigs that will be ready to slaughter for Christmas,” His father’s tone was stern and meant to end the conversation quickly.

Jack let the pen shut and set about locking it. The mother pig was buried in the corner, squealing and crying softly. He watched her for a long moment, wondering if she’d be one of the ones sent off to make up for his father’s lies. It was always so shocking to the Morrison boy that no matter how much his father preached about honest, he could be the biggest liar in the world. “One of the piglets then?” Jack asked, turning to look at his father.

“If they’re fat enough by then.”

Jack braced his arms against the gate and shook his head, “Why don’t you just tell the man what happened and offer him a turkey or a goose instead? We need the pigs for the market next spring, they’d fetch us good money.”

“Because a Morrison doesn’t go back on his word.”

The grip of the wood between his fingers grew so tight he felt like he could splinter it. The pastor was nothing to them, just a man who read from a book once or twice a week. If they were lucky, he wasn’t taking Mrs. Tilly Ruthford into a confessional to “confess her sins”, like the good Christian woman she was. Lassie deserved a better fate than to be sent off to fill that man’s stomach.

It always astounded him how backwards the world could be.

“He’d be better off with a turkey,” Jack snarled under his breath and slammed the lock into place.

He tried to storm past his father but only got an arm’s length away before the older man gripped his jacket. “You tryin’ to tell me how to deal with _**my**_ farm, boy?”

Jack shook his father’s grip from him and turned to glare. “Why would I do that?” He questioned. “Not like you’d listen to me, anyway.”

“Why should I?” His father questioned with a mocking laugh, “You take over a farm when I wasn’t lookin’? Been running it and keeping the family nice and fed while my back was turned?” Jack didn’t answer, which earned another laugh from his father, “No! You haven’t. So maybe you should just do as I say and keep your mouth shut, huh?”

“Do as you say? And what’s that, Pa?” He snapped, “Kiss the ass of the preacher to earn favor with God?! Good thing, I figure, since we’ll all be getting there sooner at the rate the farm’s fallin’ apart! Sure Tom and Em will get good seats next to Jesus thanks to our pig filling the preacher’s belly!”

The crack across his cheek was so loud, Thomas and Emma turned from their work to look back towards the barn to see what happened. Edgar’s shoulders heaved with a contained rage only he seemed to possess. Jack didn’t flinch as his face moved with the force of the slap and his cheek began to burn in both humiliation and pain. His father lifted his hand again and pointed a finger at him. His hand was shaking in pure and unbridled rage and from what Jack could see out of the corner of his eyes it was taking every ounce of his being to not strike his son again. “You best _never_ speak to me like that again, boy. You hear me?”

It wasn’t often that Edgar Morrison struck his children. He didn’t enjoy the act and it always seemed to destroy him if he ever had to do it. It had been a long time since Jack had experienced such a thing and he had figured that because he was now a man, he wouldn’t ever feel the sting of his father’s hand against his skin again. He stood still for a moment, his brain not realizing that he had even been asked a question. He dumbly nodded, faltering slightly under his father’s hard glare. It seemed to satisfy the older man who shoved past him and started back towards the house.

He stood in that barn until he heard the sound of the door being slammed in the distance. He flinched, his body letting out a long and quivering breath that shook his very shoulders. He could hear Thomas urge Emma back to the grave and help him. The sound of feet crunching over snow got closer to the barn and it wasn’t long before he could hear her calling his name. “Jack?” She called out to him, barely above a whisper.

He didn’t move until he felt her fingers wrap around his hand and give a gentle tug. He slowly turned and looked down into his sister’s bright blue eyes. They were watching him closely, not at all afraid to hide the concern on her face. She eyed the red mark on his slowly swelling cheek and her face fell. “Did Pa-“

“Go help Thomas,” Jack cut in, gently turning her around. She tried digging her heels into the mud, but he proved stronger than her 9 year old body could handle. “Just…go help Thomas. It’s alright, I promise.”

 

* * *

 

 

The diner was located on one of the roads leading out of St. Bernice. It didn’t take too long to walk from the Morrison farm and on good nights Jack could be there in less than thirty minutes. He could normally slip out, have a hot meal with Miss Margaret, and slip back in before anyone even realized he was gone.

Most of their late night rendezvous ended with more kissing and pawing than actual talking and it suited both parties just fine. But that night, Jack wasn’t in the mood for much of anything. He stared into his cup of coffee and stirred the spoon to watch the vortex it created. His mind wasn’t filled with much of anything, lost in the haze of smoke and the smell of maple syrup. The dings of the bell from the kitchen mixed in with the voices of people talking all around him which provided an odd sort music to his mind’s wanderings.

His eyes glanced at the back wall, where the hands of the clock were positioned halfway between quarter past seven and half past. He let out the hundredth sigh that evening and brought the mug to his lips, taking a long gulp of the now cold beverage. The bitterness felt good on his tongue and the hand dragging along his back felt even better. A wide smile crossed his lips as he set his cup down on the napkin in front of him. “You’re late.”

“Sorry,” Miss Margaret smiled and slid into the stool beside him. She set her dark purse down on the bar top and sighed, “Momma and Daddy were insistent on me staying in tonight.”

Jack’s brows furrowed, “Why?” She shrugged and started to dig into her bag for her smokes, “Not a clue. Apparently, something big is going on but they didn’t tell me what it was. Not even sure they know exactly.” She let out a huff, slamming her purse shut. She turned to look at him with pleading green eyes. "Got your smokes on you?"

Jack laughed and reached into his coat pocket, tugging out the pack of Lucky Strikes. He tapped it against his palm and offered the stick that came out to the beautiful woman sitting next to him. She smiled and placed it between her ruby red lips. Next, Jack produced the simple lighter from the same pocket. She didn’t break eye contact with him as he lit her cigarette. She took one, slow drag and let the smoke dance into the air. Her legs were crossed and the tip of her heel pressed against his leg. “So,” Miss Margaret started, speaking past another exhale of smoke, “You gonna tell me why your cheek is the size of an apple?”

He waved her off, working on lighting his own cigarette, “It’s nothin’.”

She watched him with experienced eyes. They had been together long enough to know that he was lying. And they had also been together long enough to know that the Morrison men weren’t on the best of terms lately. He sat under her stare for a long time, nursing the tobacco between his fingers as he looked at the menu board above them. “Your Pa’s still not listenin’?” She asked finally. She kept her voice low so the others around them couldn’t hear.

He tapped off the ashes into the tray with a bitter snort, “Has he ever?”

“This about us wanting to move to the city?”

“No,” Jack shook his head, “This is about the dead piglets we found after church this morning.”

Miss Margaret’s eyes widened, “Dead? How many of them?”

“At least four.”

They sat quietly for a moment. Miss Margaret thanked the waitress when she brought her a cup of coffee. She silently prepared it to her liking and took a slow sip. “What is your father gonna do?”

“Give the pastor a pig for Christmas.”

“How can he?” She asked surprised, “You only have Lassie and a few of the older boys left. He can’t give them up with half of your piglets gone.”

“Don’t want to upset the pastor, Miss Margaret.” Jack grumbled. He stubbed out his cigarette with more force than was necessary. “Might run to Jesus and tell him what naughty children we're being.”

Miss Margaret didn’t answer. She watched him run a hand through his blonde hair and heave out another labored sigh that didn’t suit him much. He seemed to be doing more and more of that lately. She knew that Jack hated the arguments he would have with his father. Every time he came to her after another confrontation, Jack looked like he was on the verge of tears and tonight was no different. She reached over and gently placed her hand on his arm. Giving him a soft squeeze, she offered him her most dazzling smile. “Don’t you worry: soon, we’ll be on our way to Indianapolis. We’ll find good jobs and we can send him the money back to buy more pigs.”

Jack wanted to believe that more than anything. He didn’t reply; instead, he put a larger hand on hers and stroked her knuckle with his thumb. A smile found its way onto his lips and it settled in naturally. He would never be able to understand how she seemed to know just what to say to make his problems melt off his mind. He wondered for a brief moment if his mother did that for his father. If they would sit as close as they were and just take in each other’s presence – if that alone made all their troubles go away. The farm, the children, and the war out east: all of it would seem so small compared to the person sitting across from them.

He turned to look at her, admiring her face and let her smile warm him from the inside out. His eyes trailed over the curve of her cheeks and took in the way her red curls framed her face. Miss Margaret always reminded him of a painting that one would see in a museum in the city. It would be carefully preserved so everyone could experience the beauty that she had to offer. It was a shame that she had been born to a small, nobody town like St. Bernice.

Jack leaned over and pressed his lips to hers. Miss Margaret always tasted of honey and spice. She reached up and gently touched his red and swollen cheek. He flinched under her fingers, but slowly settled back into her lips. Her grip on his arm tightened ever so slightly before she pulled back to look at him under those long, dark lashes that he loved so much.

“Did you bring the car?” He asked, lowly.

 

* * *

 

 

The farm was deathly silent when Jack slipped in the next morning. He was still so high off of the previous night that he couldn’t even pretend to notice.

He was missing a sock and his hair was still a mess as he shut the door behind him. He was sure Miss Margaret’s perfume was still floating in his clothes and he didn’t mind it at all. A small part of him wanted everyone to know that he belonged to her in this way. The most special of ways that made his abdomen tighten and his pale ears tinge pink.

He kicked off his shoes and pushed them into the pile with the others to dry. The only thing on the young boy’s mind now was crawling into bed and relaxing. Hopefully, he could catch a few hours of sleep before the others woke up and he would be forced to start the day. Not that he minded if he didn’t. He had plenty of happy memories to help him through the work.

Jack turned to make the long climb up to his room when he saw someone sitting in one of the living room chairs. He froze instantly in terror, realizing it was his father. He was certain he was sitting there to greet him when he got home. A sense of annoyance washed over him and he prepared himself for another fight. He didn't put it past the man to wait until the crack of dawn to take a jab at his son.

His father didn’t even look up at him, however. The man sat slumped over in his chair and seemed completely unaware that anyone was in the room with him. His eyes were focused on the newspaper that was spread out on top of the coffee table. Jack could tell from where he stood by the door that his eyes were red and the man had been crying. His hands were pressed against his lips in prayer. From the looks of it, something terrible had happened.

“Uh…Pa?” Jack dared to call out, quietly so not to alarm him too much.

His father didn’t move. He continued to stare at the newspaper in front of him. The feeling in Jack’s stomach was something he had never felt before. It was the worst combination of an all knowing dread and terrifying confusion. He had never seen his father like this and it unsettled him more than he could ever say aloud. He let his coat drop into the chair as he passed by, going to shake his father to bring him back to the real world. He wanted him to say something. He wanted his father to scream at him for being out so late, for smelling of perfume and missing clothes.

“Pa.” Jack tried again, firmly this time. He gave him a good nudge on his shoulder. His father opened his eyes and turned to look up at his son. His face was as pale as the snow outside. His whole body was shuddering and Jack was certain it had nothing to do with the chill in the house. He swallowed, suddenly aware of how dry his throat was.

“Jack,” His father said finally. The Morrison men stared at each other as if seeing each other for the first time. His finger lifted up and pointed to the paper. Jack didn’t want to look at it and every fiber of his being screamed to just turn and run out of the house. Still, he forced his eyes to trail along his father’s arm and settle on the headline.

His brain didn’t know how to make sense of the words even though they were printed so plainly in front of him. His eyes scanned over the bold, black letters. But even though the words didn’t make any sense, the feeling in his stomach worsened. His jaw slowly rested against his chest and he briefly became aware of the sound of his father’s sobs. Jack could feel his heart was racing, the ringing in his ears taking over as his brain went into panic. _No…no, this…this isn’t…_

_**1500 DEAD IN HAWAII,**_ the headline read, _**CONGRESS VOTES WAR.**_

The silence fell over the house again and neither men felt it right to break it.


End file.
